


Screw You

by Anonymous



Category: Adore You - Harry Styles (Song), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Nostalgia, Romance, Trepidation, congrats zigi, looking for something to buy, put a price on emotion, sad boy shit, zayn being a dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23923537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The year is 2030. Zayn is chilling with his daughter when she asks about a small tattoo on his ankle. Zayn encounters a wave of nostalgia and relives a turning point in his relationship with the icon Harry Styles.
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Harry Styles
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47
Collections: Anonymous, One Direction, zarry fics





	Screw You

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written a fic in my whole life. I have no idea how AO3 works. I know virtually nothing about One Direction, so don't expect detailed timelines or research. If anyone reads this I will be amazed. Thank you, dear reader, whoever you are. Enjoy.

“Hey dad?” A break from math homework. A very welcome break. “What do your tattoos mean anyway?”

Zayn smiled to himself. How many was he up to these days, anyway? 60-something? “You’re gonna have to be more specific, babe.” He was sat next to her at the kitchen counter, one leg crossed over the other, hunched over a book.

“Like the one on your ankle. That one’s weird. What is it?” Aya asked. She was pointing to the small mark right on top of his ankle bone, nearly hidden by the hem of his pants. It was faded beyond all hell these days--indistinguishable in its shape. _Really should get that one covered,_ Zayn thought. The thought had come up many times before. He simply hadn’t gotten around to it. 

Zayn rubbed his thumb over the spot. “It used to be a screw. Like a–” he held his fingers up like an imaginary drill and imitated a _zzz zzz_ sound. “Like a screw.”

Aya smiled, but looked perplexed. “That’s a little stupid.”

Ah, Aya. Never one to hold back. Even age 10 she had the sass of her parents. He couldn’t be more proud. 

“Yeah, yeah. Back to work, then, eh?” He pushed her calculator in her direction across the kitchen counter. Zayn got up from his stool to grab a beer. Dinner would be here soon, after all.

“Well, why did you get it? Surely it means _something_ ,” she persisted. 

Of course it meant _something_. But Zayn could hardly remember. It must have been almost 20 years ago now that he had this small screw drawn into his ankle in a hotel room in--where was it? Barcelona? Canada? And the tattoo “artist”…

“I don’t remember, I guess. It was just silly I suppose,” Zayn said, slightly hoping she would leave it. 

“Was it when you were in the band?”

“Yes. Yeah, it was. We were probably on tour or something, just messing around.”

He started to see the hotel room--fancy, probably five-star, fully-stocked mini bar, a suitcase open to the side of the bed with clothes strewn around. The buzzing of a tattoo machine. Quite a few drinks in, woozy from the pain of the needle coming in and out of the skin right on top of his ankle bone. Careful but shaky hands wiping away the excess ink. Harry had been far from a professional--he got the tattoo machine as a gift, for fucks sake. The only tattoo he’d done before that point was tattooing “BIG” on his toe. _Fucking idiot,_ Zayn thought. _I was the idiot, too._

“What does it mean, then?”

It was a kind of inside joke. Harry was being a proper twat, fucking around as usual, and Zayn said, “screw you.” Harry got a kick out of that--Zayn had, too. It seemed funny at the time. “Screw you,” then physically etching a screw into each other’s skin. Ha. 

Did Harry ever cover his?

“It was just an inside joke, I think. A few of us all got the same tattoo.” 

“Hmm.” Aya said. “Who else had one?”

Zayn sighed. “Uh, Harry, yeah, and Liam, I think? Maybe someone else?”

“Do they still have theirs?”

Nosy little sucker. “I’m really not sure, babe. Would have to ask. Or Google it, maybe.”

“Cool. Can I be done with this now?” she said, gesturing to her math homework that, at this point, was a complete loss. 

“Yeah, yeah. Sure. Dinner should be here soon.” They’d ordered Thai. Zayn was a useless cook, especially as a single dad these days. 

Aya grunted in response, then got up to go to the back yard, probably to skateboard before it got too dark. 

Zayn took this moment alone to hop on his laptop. It had been a while since Zayn had looked him up. Of course he saw that his latest album was a total success--his fifth solo album, was that it? Sixth? Definitely sixth. Seventh, if you counted the live album several years back. He sees the tabloids, the news articles, the social media buzz. Never fucking shuts up. Gigi had mentioned some things about him, too. He was doing well. A total success, still the superstar he always was.

“harry styles screw tattoo,” Zayn typed into Google. Upon first glance, most of the articles are about how Harry’s tattoo matched the one on Zayn’s own ankle--no recent update on whether it was still there on Harry’s. _Of course not, you absolute twit_ , Zayn thought. Who would be writing articles on a 20-year-old microscopic ankle tatt? 

But still... Nothing explicitly stating it _wasn’t_ still there.

An interview from 2023, promo for his third album. A fucking banger of an album. “Harry Styles Breaks Down His Tattoos.” Zayn listens to Harry talk about how most of his tattoos are “pretty silly, to be honest,” with some stylish shots of Harry in his, at that time, classic look of high-waist trousers and a button down shirt. He can tell Harry isn’t taking this too seriously. He sits on a stool in front of a white backdrop, smiling, comfortable. Legs crossed, hands holding his knee. Being an absolute charmer. He always killed the promo. 

Zayn mostly skips past Harry explaining his arm tattoos--he knows about those, with the exception of a couple new ones. The camera zooms on Harry’s arms. Harry had gotten some touch-ups recently, it looked like. They don’t show them, but Harry talks for a second about his torso tattoos--the iconic sparrows, the butterfly...Oh. The laurels. 

He thinks about what’s underneath the laurels garnishing Harry’s lower stomach.

_Might as well._

_Don’t think I won’t._

Zayn inhales a sharp breath, annoyed with himself. How many times had he seen by now? Get the fuck over it, idiot.

He quickly skips past this section--he’s sure Harry says something about the laurels just being “pretty,” fucking asshole. 

He hears Harry say “I have a few on my legs, nothing crazy, just more silly stuff I guess.” Harry laughs. He mentions his tiger, “yes” and “no” on his knees, moving his way down. “A few on my ankles,” he says. “Those ones fucking hurt. Don’t do it, kids.”

Harry goes to lift up his pant leg on his left leg, then quickly lets it fall down. Zayn pauses. He has to rewind a bit. He goes frame by frame, looking for the moment Harry’s ankle would be most visible. Fuck. He’s wearing fucking socks. 

“Yeah, that’s the best of ‘em, I think! I don’t know if I’ll do more. I have no plans.” He has more to say as the video comes to an end, but Zayn doesn’t particularly care to hear.

Zayn rewinds again. Frame by frame. Harry lifts his pant leg in slow motion. Zayn finds the moment, zooms in as much as he can. White trouser socks. They might be see-through, if the quality of this zoomed-in shot didn’t suck so fucking hard. 

Fuck. 

Zayn and Harry had both had a lot to drink when it happened. It was on a day off. They’d slept in late. Harry had done some shopping in whatever city it was, Zayn recalled. It was late when Harry invited Zayn to his room for room service and a movie. “As long as we don’t watch your lame shit,” Zayn had said, or something along those lines. He couldn’t remember now what they watched--it was far from important anyway.

It was the first time the two had been alone, just the two of them, in a long while. There had been a couple of instances of the two of them hanging out with...additional company. Girls, that is. And that was all good fun. Standard young people shit, Zayn often thought after the fact. Zayn had thought this particular time felt different. Lowkey, a chill night, just the two of them. The kind of thing Harry would more often do with his friends outside the band. It was surprising, Zayn remembered. But it wouldn’t be the last time.

Harry let Zayn into his room that night, smiling and excited. He’d already been drinking. What else was a day off for? He probably greeted Zayn with wide open arms, maybe yelling “ZAAAAAYYYN! Come in man, come in!” Always a proper host. They got pizza, settled in to watch whatever bullshit Harry decided on. They spent hours. HOURS. Fucking around, making jokes. It had felt like what Zayn needed. The tour and recording life was grinding on him. He’d felt unfulfilled, depressed, anxious, the only saving grace being--well. Well. 

Zayn couldn’t remember how they’d gotten the idea to do the tattoo anyway. Fucking idiots. Harry brought out the tattoo machine, maybe just to show off. Zayn was lying down on Harry’s bed, and Harry tossed the tattoo machine onto the bed next to Zayn. He sat down near Zayn’s feet and pulled off his sock to show the notorious “BIG” tattoo. “Not half bad,” Zayn lied. It was horrible. But it had a certain charm to it, just like anything Harry did. The kid fucking tattooed himself, you know. That takes balls. And Zayn was impressed.

“Could be a nice backup gig, you know,” Harry said, laying down on his back, holding the tattoo gun on his chest. “Next album flops, I get into the tattoo biz.”

“I don’t know about that, mate,” Zayn said, laughing to himself. 

“Oh so you don’t like my art then,” Harry said, shoving his foot in Zayn’s face. 

“Fucking disgusting man, get that away from me,” he said. Harry moved his foot closer, his big toe brushing Zayn’s cheek. Zayn swatted his leg away, laughing. “Fuck off.”

“Don’t act like you don’t like it, zany boy,” Harry said, . He got...playful, let’s say, when he was tipsy. He once again moved his foot toward Zayn’s face. Zayn swatted him away again, and returned the gesture by swinging his foot towards Harry’s face at the opposite end of the bed. Harry caught his foot, grabbing hold of his ankle tightly. He gave the side of Zayn’s foot a light kiss. 

“Screw you,” Zayn said, jerking his foot away and grabbing a pillow from behind him to throw in Harry’s direction. They both sat up. Harry picked up the tattoo machine that had fallen from his chest onto his bed. 

“You wanna see it in action?” Harry said. Before Zayn said anything, Harry was going to grab the rest of his kit. Zayn watched as he pulled out black in and started setting up the machine. Harry moved like he was about to start in tattooing on his ankle. 

“Harry, you fucking idiot!” Zayn blurted out, trying to grab the tattoo gun from him. “You can’t just...tattoo yourself, mate.”

“I have before!” Harry refuted, gesturing once again to his big toe. 

“You’re such a twat.” 

“You, then.”

A pause. “ _Me?_ ” Zayn said. 

“Yes, you. Let me do you.” Harry said, smiling wide and bouncing slightly on the bed.

“Fuck off.” 

“Just a little one! I need the practice, don’t you think?” 

“You don’t need the practice on _me_!” 

“You’ve already got some dumb ones, eh? What’s one m–”

“Screw you, fuckwad,” Zayn said, throwing another pillow Harry’s direction. He was running out of pillows. 

“SCREW!” Harry exclaimed, fully bouncing up and down on the bed excitedly. “Oh god Zayn thisisgonnabegood!”

“What’re you on about?”

“Let me just do a tiny one. A screw. On your ankle.”

“A screw on my ankle,” Zayn said in slight disbelief. Why was he feeling...persuaded?

“Just a small one! It’ll be cute. Tasteful.”

“You’re such a motherfucker.”

“So that’s a yes, then?” Harry was leaning forward, holding onto the tattoo gun tightly. 

Zayn sighed. He took a solid gulp of his drink and looked Harry dead in the eye. “Fine. But if you fuck it up you’re paying for the cover-up.”

“Deal.” Harry was absolutely grinning. 

Turns out getting a tattoo right on the ankle fucking hurts. Fuck that. 

But Harry was careful. He wasn’t reckless, didn’t act like he was drunkenly tattooing a boy’s ankle on an impulse. He was focused. Gentle, all things considered. Still hurt like hell, though. 

The whirring of the machine stopped. “I think I’m done,” Harry said rather quietly. He was staring intently at Zayn’s ankle. He grabbed an wipe from his kit and gently wiped over Zayn’s skin. Zayn hissed. It took everything for Zayn to keep from pulling his ankle away. 

“And?” Zayn said. “How did you do?”

“Could be worse,” Harry said. Zayn got the sense Harry was excited to show his work. 

Zayn pulled his ankle toward him. It wasn’t...good. But it wasn’t bad. It also didn’t matter. Zayn felt a sense of...he wasn’t sure. Admiration, maybe. Maybe. Love. 

“I don’t hate it,” he eventually said. “But don’t quit the band any time soon, eh.”

“Noted,” Harry said, but smiling. He started to put the kit away, but Zayn wanted to stop him. 

“Hey hey hey!” Zayn said. “What if I want to try?”

“Fucker!” Harry said. “You mean _you_ tattoo _me_?” 

“Yeah! You’ve already got some dumb ones, what’s one m–”

“I should punch you,” Harry said playfully. 

“You just stabbed me repeatedly,” Zayn said. “My turn?”

Zayn didn’t expect it would take a lot of convincing. Harry didn’t strike him as being particularly protective over the images sketched into his skin. “Fine, fine, fine,” Harry said. “I want the same thing. Same place.”

“Hand it over, then,” Zayn said. Harry gave him the tattoo machine and got himself adjusted so that his ankle was sitting on top of Zayn’s upper thigh. Harry gave Zayn a few instructions on operating the tattoo gun, but Zayn could tell Harry trusted him. Or didn’t give a fuck what the final result looked like. Zayn brushed his fingers over the skin of Harry’s ankle. Harry adjusted so that he was sat up, sitting close to Zayn, their faces getting closer and closer. Harry put his hand on Zayn’s wrist, softly--why, Zayn wasn’t quite sure. Was he trying to stop him?

“Go ahead, then,” Harry said, quietly, nearly a whisper. 

Zayn let out a small cough and started the machine. He dialed in on Harry’s ankle, trying to get the initial placement exactly right. He was nervous. He couldn’t bring himself to touch the needle to Harry’s skin. Part of him wanted to call the whole thing off, but part of him...part of him wanted to watch Harry’s face as the needle went in. Hear him breathe in sharply, wince a little. Relax as he starts to adjust to the pain. _Is that demented?_ Zayn thought. 

“What are you waiting for?” Harry said.

“Right.” Zayn took a few more seconds, then finally touched the needle to Harry’s ankle. Harry hardly reacted, apart from tightly grasping the top of Zayn’s shoulder. The contact made Zayn tense up a bit, though he quite liked Harry holding on like that. After a few seconds Harry let go, starting to relax. Zayn almost wanted to stop. But he kept going, starting with the outline of the top of the screw. 

Harry laid down and put his arm over his forehead. Zayn paused to stare at him. “Alright?” he asked. Harry grunted in response--positive, Zayn thought. _Maybe this is just how he is when he’s getting work done_ , Zayn thought. Zoned-out. In another world. Zayn envied that. And he could see why the boy was getting more and more and more ink etched into his skin.

A little while later, Zayn felt happy with his work. It looked like a screw. Abstractly, anyway. 

“All finished,” Zayn said. 

Harry sighed. He sat up and handed Zayn a wipe from his kit. Zayn began to wipe at the skin carefully. Harry leaned in to get a good look at Zayn’s work. 

“Mmmm,” he said. “I quite like it, actually. Not bad at all.” Harry looked at Zayn and smiled. “Thank you,” he said. 

That felt meaningful, but Zayn wasn’t sure why. Harry was still beaming. He seemed completely exhilarated by the whole experience. 

He gripped Zayn’s shoulder again, just like before. His smile started to look a little more serious. The same laser-sharp focus from before had returned, but this time narrowed in on Zayn’s lips. Harry started to lean in. He moved his hand from Zayn’s shoulder to his cheek, lightly stroking his cheekbone. Zayn stopped breathing entirely when Harry started to lean in further, closing his eyes as he touched his lips to Zayn’s. Zayn welcomed the kiss, moving his hand to Harry’s thigh. 

Harry stopped suddenly to mumble, “Okay?”

“Yes,” Zayn whispered back. 

The doorbell rang. Zayn looked at the image of Harry’s sock-covered ankle still zoomed in on his computer screen. He slammed the laptop shut and went to the front door to pick up the food. Aya, of course, sensed right away that the food was ready. They moved to the dining room table, Zayn laying out the different containers while Aya retrieved plates and utensils. This was a routine they were accustomed to. 

“Your noodles, madame,” Zayn said, sliding the container to Aya to his right. She got the head of the table, of course. 

“Macho gracias,” she said, her mistaken translation and British-American-trying- to-be-Spanish accent bringing a smile to Zayn’s face. “I like the screw tattoo, by the way. It adds character.”

Zayn laughed. “Thanks, sweets.”

“Music?” Aya asked.

Zayn called out to Alexa to start playing the first pop radio station to come to mind. Sure, radio was out of fashion, a dying medium, but Zayn still liked to pay attention to the charts. This time, though, it was 7:00pm--throwback hour. The song playing was unmistakable. Zayn’s ears perked up, momentarily forgetting the Thai and Aya in the room. The final guitar riffs and background vocals played behind the final line of the song: “just let me adore you, like it’s the only thing I’ll ever do.” 

The song has an abrupt end. The only thing filling the silence afterward is the sound of slurping noodles from the end of the dining table.

  
  



End file.
